


One Step Closer

by rekishi



Series: One Step Closer [1]
Category: Coldfire - Friedman
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/pseuds/rekishi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A couple of missing scenes that should have been in the books but weren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step Closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magistera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magistera/gifts).



As the sharp teeth pierced the soft flesh on the underside of his forearm, Damien Vryce could hardly keep from grimacing. A single sharp sensation was shooting along his nerves for several seconds, then was replaced by a steady pulling as Tarrant started to drink. It was disconcerting and different from the last time this had happened, when they had just pulled the man from the fire in the rakhlands and Damien had already been injured from the fight that had followed. Different, yet the same.

Again, his blood was required to help the Hunter heal, for the man to regain his strength. But while it was the same scarred arm, the sensation was different. While it essentially was the same situation, now they weren't on a desperate flight and dependent that the man regain his flesh as quickly as possible, because he was, in the most literal sense of the word, a dead weight to them and leaving a trail of charred flesh and trickling blood for their pursuers to follow. Instead, Damien was sitting on the other man's cot in the innermost cabin of the _Golden Glory_, just short of opening his own veins to supply sustenance because the man had refused at first, out of whatever reason.

"Tarrant!" he had urged, converting his still jiggling nerves into as much anger as he was capable of. Yet the other man had only obliged once he had threatened to do it himself, emphasizing that for once he was not leaving the Hunter a choice in the matter.

Gerald Tarrant's skin had been reddened already when he stepped out into the storm that had almost claimed every soul on board but now it was badly blistered and cracked, even blackened wherever it was not covered by the expensive clothing, the priest could only guess how ravaged things looked beneath it.

Fear in whatever capacity, even the primal fear regarding survival that the storm had inspired, was not enough for Tarrant right then. Damien couldn't say where that knowledge came from, if it blazed along the channel that linked their soul or if it was an acquired instinct that came with knowing the other man so long, he just knew it was there and the only other source of food he could provide was fresh human blood. The earth fae were unreachable, so even if they had been enough to supply Tarrant with what he needed they were not an option and the Coldfire sword, now sheathed again at the man's hip, had spent a fair amount of its harnessed energies to redirect the storm just minutes past and it might very well be the only object that kept him alive on this journey.

At least he had finally let go of the piece of rigging his hand had clawed to when Damien had dumped him unceremoniously on the cot.

The pulling sensation subsided after several minutes and the priest took it as his cue to take his arm away. He made to rise, even though he was feeling slightly light-headed between the blood loss and the still swaying ship, to leave his dark companion to regain some of his annoying pride and dignity when long, slender fingers grabbed the crook of his arm with surprising strength. He was held in place merely long enough for the two men to make the briefest of eye contacts; the Hunter's cold silver gaze had not wavered from its hardness bereft of emotion. And what had he expected, gratitude? From Gerald Tarrant one could not hope for such emotions and neither should Damien, for it made the man all too human. And yet that brief contact with the Hunter's cold flesh conveyed a feeling that Damien didn't know how to name, much less to place.

And the minute look at his face was enough to make the priest think he saw traces of his own blood still coating the other man's lips. In retrospect, when he was standing at the rail trying to calm his heaving stomach with deep breaths, that probably had been his overactive imagination. Tarrant would never waste a single drop of offered blood.

~*~

"I can manage those nightmares on my own, can't I?" Damien didn't look at the man at his side or the letter he was holding in his own hands. And couldn't he. The memories of the Patriarch ripping the chain declaring his status and his titles off his neck, drawing blood, was still as vivid as if it has really happened just yesterday, as if it hadn't been a dream planted into his subconscious by Gerald Tarrant. And that had only been one of them, maybe not even the worst. And it had been more than a year ago.

"So it would seem," Gerald answered and soundlessly stepped away from his side.

Two days and nights went past until Damien shuffled along the dim corridors of the innermost part of the ship's body, shielded from all daylight. His steps were heavy on the wooden planks and he felt as if his own weight was dragging him to the floor. Sleep had turned into torture, no relaxation but only more exhaustion was coming from it. It was necessary, he knew; he needed the Neocount at something resembling full strength when they arrived. On the other hand, he would be if no use if the other man drained him of all strength now simply by making the sleep the brain needed impossible.

The door to Tarrant's special cabin opened before he could knock. The channel, Damien realized and stepped through, let it fall shut behind him and bolted it. He didn't need an audience for this.  
"It's not enough, is it?" he asked without looking at his travel companion.

"It's not enough", the other man confirmed and the priest hardly dare to look into his eyes. He knew he would see hunger there, the silver pools filled with it despite the richness of the nourishment that should have been received. But Gerald had said it on the shores of the eastern continent already, Damien was unable to supply the food he required anymore, too many terrors and too much fear had assaulted the priest's soul to do much for the Hunter's needs. Maybe some day... But not now. That's why the girl had come with them.

Now she was dead. And Damien was probably as much at fault as Tarrant was. He had known it would end this way and he had done nothing. Or at the very least, he had not done enough.

He also knew he would have gone insane had he have to endure those nightmares for the whole of the journey again.

"We should have expected as much," Gerald continued and it was the reasonable tone that made Damien hate him all the more in that moment. He had sworn to kill the man with his own sword, yet here he was; having permitted him to feed on an innocent young woman right under Damien's eyes for months on end, driving her to suicide. Being the food supply himself once more was only small consolation. And it made him once more question if the corruption that seemed to emanate from Gerald Tarrant like the cold power of bound fae from his flesh and sword was not driving himself to a point of no return.  "Although I have to admit, it does complicate matters."

Heart pounding in his throat, Damien finally looked into the face that had inspired terror in countless of women. "What about blood? It's worked before, it might again."

"Reverend Vryce, I have heard the offer two days ago and I agreed. However, if I took what I need in the coming month from you in blood, I would suck you dry within the fortnight. You will be in need of your strength as much as me when we reach shore, so that is hardly an option. That aside, I have resorted to blood when necessary in the past but I am fully capable of taking in other nourishment and with a ship full of humans-"

"No," Damien cut him off, jaws clenched tight for a moment. "You will not touch anyone on this ship, not the crew, not the passengers."

One perfectly shaped eyebrow was lifted and Tarrant regarded him with a cool and measuring gaze. "Because you will not allow it? Be sensible, Reverend, it's the only option open to us."

"Make the dreams stronger," Damien offered within a heartbeat. "Take my blood. I'm a Healer, I can-" He stopped before the other man's expression turned hard and darkened.

"You can't Work here, Vryce, you know that. That's why we're having this exercise in the first place. The only fae on this vessel are those Worked into the wood at the shipyard and those trapped within my sword. You cannot Work them to regenerate your blood at the same rate that I drink it, you cannot access the currents on the bottom of this ocean. Tell me, how do you plan to supply sustenance with these constrictions in place?" His features had not changed one bit, his voice was not angry or agitated but calm and collected and that's what made Damien's heart sink. Tarrant had thought about all the options already and dismissed them one after another. The analytical mind of the man who had once been the Prophet.

"You can Work them."

"I cannot Heal, Reverend, and frankly even if it was within my power, the compact that ensures my continued existence is under enough strain as it is."

"Gerald, you can work the fae in your sword. The channel works in both directions, you can send them to me in workable form, I use them to renew my blood. You ensure your food supply, I don't see how that is violating any of the restrictions binding you." But the Neocount's expression stayed unimpressed and unconvinced. Damien closed his eyes. "Please, Gerald. I can't let you hurt anyone, I promised." He would have promised Sisa too, had she let him. There would have been a way.

Silence.

A rustle of clothing after what felt like a small eternity, the cold power of the sword being unsheathed radiated through the small room.

"Sit down, Reverend." There was nowhere to sit but the narrow cot and when Damien opened his eyes again he could see Tarrant standing as what passed for impatient with him in one corner, sword in hand. Damien sat and waited, muttering a key under his breath that would make the fae accessible to him. He doubted that even with Gerald's Adept-heightened perception there was anything to be done without the mental implements mankind had found to make Working the forces possible.

Something tugged at the channel, the pull got stronger and something seemed to rip open. Damien didn't know what he had expected, roaring fae currents cursing around the room maybe, but certainly not the small trickle that reached his mind in glowing droplets of power. A sign of how depleted the sword's power must be already, their journey had been so much longer than before, or otherwise how jealously the Hunter guarded his only true means of power in this Earth-like place. Their glow was different from what he was used to, what he knew from Working the unharnessed currents. Darker, colder. Gerald's influence no doubt and Damien had a difficult time to avoid recoiling from it.

Damien didn't dare think how that might further corrupt his own soul but took what he was given into his mind, suffused his whole being, let it take shape within him. Blood. Red. Millions of discrete cells taking shape in his marrow, maturing, pushed out into his blood stream.

The trickle of power stopped soon after and he opened his eyes. "Thank you, Gerald," he said quietly.

The cold silver eyes didn't waver and the priest shivered a little. "What for? I didn't do anything."

Before Damien could answer again the ship rocked violently as if it had hit an underwater riff, but there had been no splintering of wood, only the shouts of crew and passengers were reaching them now. Both of them had ended up on the deck, Damien falling heavily on his side while Tarrant had landed in a sitting position, the damp and grime of the planks rubbing off on their clothing and skin. Not that the additional dirt was in any way discernible on the priest's own garb, travel-stained as it was.

The ship rocked again, even more violently and Gerald ended up face down next to Damien, for once looking equal parts stunned an enraged. Something quivered along the residue energy of the opened channel, something that Damien would have voiced as as "What the vulk was that?" Not that Tarrant ever gave voice to his emotions.

~*~

The exaltation of Damien Vryce's terror flooded into his mind, filling him and easing the cravings with sweet nourishment.

At the same time he knew he would now never be rid of the former Reverend's humanity, not even should one of them die today. Gerald Tarrant had every intention of surviving this day as well as living past the Unnamed's grace period. But he also knew he would never be able to return to what he had once been, before running into the priest and his entourage at the dae that fateful night.

So be it.

The man would probably not survive the confrontation with Calesta, no matter the help that Karril would be able to offer them. Ostracized from priesthood, he would be remembered by the Church's dignitaries as the man who gave into temptation of evil, the Patriarch would take care of that no matter what he thought of him personally. But for all his many failings and annoying traits and quirks, the Neocount of Merentha had no doubts that Damien deserved to be remembered as a brave human who had set aside his personal principles for the bigger purpose.

What greater honor was there to do the man than being remembered for another thousand years or more by the Prophet of his Church?

The man who had once sworn to his face to kill him.

The man who had gone to hell and back for him.

But those were only flitting thoughts while sweet fear rushed around his consciousness. Vryce was lying on his side next to him, rolled into a ball and breathing heavily, occasionally gasping from the terror no doubt exploding in his mind. At least the man didn't whimper.

Tarrant knew he couldn't do anything for his companion, for the simple reason that whatever he might do for comfort would diminish the fear and render the whole exercise pointless.

Still, at this rate the man would bite his own tongue off and bleed out, being of no use any longer. Gerald Tarrant reached out a hand and settled it on Vryce's lower arm, the one that bore the scars from when he had drank the priest's blood. That scarred and surprisingly strong body instinctively started to curl around the point of contact. He left it there until the other man's eyes started to flutter open.

"You all right?"

~*~

He remembered the rakhlands, the moonlit plain where he had asked Gerald Tarrant straight up what he was. "For you, I have become the most subtle creature of all," the man known as the Hunter had answered. "A civilized evil, genteel and seductive." And other things.

Back then, Damien had sworn to the man's face to kill him. And at the time he would have, had he been able to without endangering their party further. In the end, he had fought for the Neocount's soul and Andrys Tarrant had done the killing.

He remembered that too. Gerald's severed head held by its hair. The hot tears streaming down Damien's face, because of the loss the world would face now, one of its most brilliant minds gone forever, all due to the rash decision of a bad copy. There was no way he could ever justify what Gerald had done during his life and unlife, but the man he had become had gotten one last chance at redemption. And that was cruelly taken away by Andrys. But if he was to be honest with himself, it was the personal loss that had caused the tears.

Neither of them could have defeated the Master of Lema alone, nor the Undying Prince. They had defeated Calesta and even (in a certain way) the giant kraken whose tentacles had almost drowned them on their journey back to Faraday. And Gerald finally had broken his compact, his heart beating and healthy. Equally not something that would have happened without both of them present. And Damien knew, in those last days since the escape from Hell at the very least, Gerald had become more than just a companion.

Damien had seen the man murder in cold blood, torture a young woman until she was driven to suicide. The Hunter's hard, hungry eyes. His cold flesh. He had vivisected his own family in payment to the dark forces that had sustained his existence. Damien did not know if he dared call Gerald a friend, although he likely was the closest anyone had come in many years. Personal loss.

Redemption rendered void by the gleaming edge of Andrys' sword.

"Vryce."

He stirred but didn't wake.

"Damien."

Again. A voice he knew, even in his sleep, didn't exist anymore was calling him. The person the voice belonged to was dead. Or changed. Or whatever. A hand started softly shaking his shoulders.

"Damien, you really need to wake up." And the voice transformed from the Hunter's to someone else's, someone he didn't know, yet was increasingly familiar with.

Former Reverend Damien Kilcannon Vryce opened his eyes and stared into a face much younger than his own. A face much younger than the soul that resided in its body. Sitting up wasn't easy, his overwrought muscles protested after having lain on the floor for the last few hours in a position anything but comfortable. "What is it?" He scrubbed his face down with one hand in an ineffectual attempt to wake up faster. It used to be easier, when he was still younger and traveling alone.

"Trouble," the youth simply said and rose in one fluid motion. "A hunting party is coming." Like at the Black Ridge Pass Inn, people had come to all kinds of places to hunt the nightmares the fae had spawned in times past. The trouble was, not only were they hunting those man-made constructs, but they had also started to regard those of the Iezu which were least human in aspect as demon-born, despite many followers preaching to the contrary. Pursuits of common enemies always spawned zealots, as Damien's young companion had pointed out, a dark look of contempt in his eyes.

"And we don't want to meet them," the ex-priest agreed and pushed his tired bones up so he could grab for his pack and stuff the few items he had taken out for the night back in. He didn't think to question how the other man knew, he had stopped doing that shortly after their paths had crossed for the first time since the Inn. An accident. Damien seeking employment, the young man gathering every scrap of knowledge from the local loremasters regarding the Iezu. With Gerald's notebooks turned to ash, it was the last resource available.

Then the first attack against the Mother's children had started, first only with torches and pitchforks, and prompted them into action.

The truce between them wasn't an easy one, one once more born of necessity.

No real evidence had surfaced so far that these were the actions of the Church, but neither of them was truly putting it past the new Patriarch, for all intents and purposes one of just those zealots.

The currents were still unworkable and would likely remain forever but they still carried information for some reason and an Adept was still able to read them without trouble. And information was key.

A nod in confirmation. "They certainly might wonder what the two of us are doing here in the middle of nowhere."

"Well, we might just be two guys gone camping."

One delicate eyebrow rose in mockery. "In the middle of winter? With two horses in tow that don't have toes but crescent shaped hooves? I do not think so, Mer Vryce."

Damien pondered that while chewing on a piece of dried meat. "And we can hardly tell them we're looking for a Iezu whose aspect is loneliness." The mob would try to kill him or her. Certainly.

This Iezu was special. All of those who shared a human aspect needed to be among people. To feed, to ensure their continued existence. This one was different, if they could figure out why, they might just be one step closer to figuring out a way of communication. To take one step closer to the stars.

-Fin-

 


End file.
